A Night at the Opera
by WitchyDoctor
Summary: Hawkeye and Black Widow are on a mission at the Budapest Opera Ball, but there are complications... centered on Clint and Natasha, with Tony, Pepper, and Coulson. Set between Iron Man 2/Thor and The Avengers. - In Progress
1. Chapter 1

**Time Note: **This takes place between _Iron Man 2/Thor_ and _The Avengers_

**Rating Note:** M for violence, language, and eventually 'adult themes'

* * *

Budapest, Pearl of the Danube. The city was old by the standards of modern man, built by the Celts and the Romans, pillaged by the Ottomans, ruled by the Habsburgs, bombed by British and American forces during World War II, and for a time swallowed up whole by the political beast called the Soviet Union. The mighty Bear had loosed its hold on Hungary at the close of the 20th century, and now the city was a center of commerce and finance, beautiful and power and desirable. People were drawn to her for her mysterious history, her lovely facades, and the natural hot springs that bubbled beneath her surfaces. To the unwary, she could also be deadly.

On this cold, moonless February night, Hawkeye had found himself a suitable perch atop the Hungarian State Opera House. Miklós Ybl likely had not had such uses in mind when he'd created his most well-known structure, but his neo-Renaissance design offered an exceptional wealth of angles, niches, and blind spots from which the agent-assassin could see but not _be _seen. His dark, rough-textured tactical clothing allowed him to blend in against the aged and shadowed stone, and his soft-soled leather boots made no discernible sound on the roof. The carnival season had turned the city into one huge party, with thousands of people indulging in excesses of food, drink, or whatever other pleasures of the flesh drove them, before the pious austerity of the Lenten season made such sensual activities frowned upon. His own period of denial had begun much sooner. There was a job to be done; he could not afford distractions.

"Widow, this is Hawk. I'm in position."

His voice was a low rumble, lost in the wintery wind to any curious ears that were more than a few feet away, or not connected to him via S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued throat mic. Sharp eyes followed a limousine as it pulled to a stop in front of the opera house, another in a long line of similar vehicles. One by one their rear doors had opened to disgorge men decked out in ultra-formal white tie and tails, who helped out women wearing flowing designer gowns in all hues, jewels glittering brightly even in the bluish street lights. The Budapest Opera Ball was one of the premier events of the social season, drawing the rich, famous, and politically influential from Europe and beyond. Of interest to S.H.I.E.L.D. in this case was a Middle Eastern prince with terrorist sympathies, a crap-ton of disposable cash, and a serious jones for Russian ballerinas.

Hawkeye didn't need to be able to see faces to recognize Black Widow when she emerged from her limo. It wasn't even her signature red hair that first tipped him off. No, it was the way she moved, even in a sequined emerald evening gown and fur wrap rather than her habitual black catsuit. There was an unmistakable fluidity to her highly trained and toned body, a distinctive placement to each step of her feet in their stiletto Manolos; don't ask how he knew the name, he had to learn all kinds of things in his line of work. Were there actual stilettos hidden inside those shoes, he wondered? His money would be on yes. For a brief moment, a smile crept unbidden across his face. It softened his solemn features in a way that few people ever saw, until his eyes refocused on the tall man emerging from the vehicle behind Widow. His tuxedo was like everyone else's, but he wore with it a head wrap and a heavy gold chain that sat atop the dark cloth of the jacket, an unmistakable badge of wealth and privilege.

"Has Sheik Ali bin Lookin'-to-Get-Some kept his hands to himself tonight?" he asked quietly into the frigid darkness, the words picked up and transmitted by his mic, followed by his low, cynical chuckle. "I suspect he's looking to penetrate the Iron Curtain in more than one way."

It was very dangerous to talk to her like that; Hawkeye knew that all too well. It was especially bad when she couldn't answer him right away. He'd pay dearly for it later, like he _always _did. That was part of their game, and the anticipation of her retaliation (tinged with a lick of real fear) was every bit as thrilling as anything he was doing on this roof tonight. She didn't flinch, didn't pause, didn't look up, even as his taunting words must have pricked and tickled her ear (and her ego). Instead, her hand slid neatly into the prince's crooked elbow and they climbed the broad stairs to enter the opera house, disappearing from his sight.

No, it was another chiding voice that injected a cold dash of reason. Agent Phil Coulson, while physically distant in New York City, might as well have been standing over his shoulder when he suggested in a stern tone via satellite feed that Hawkeye knock off the borderline ethnic slurs and return his attention to the task at hand: stopping the prince from making a deal to buy old Soviet nuclear ordnance to be repurposed into terrorist bombs.

"I'd give my best quiver to know where Widow stashed her weapons in that outfit," Hawk said, unable to rein himself in completely. What were they going to do, _fire _him? Besides, it was an undisputed fact that Black Widow was more dangerous buck-ass naked than most men armed with the latest in military hardware. He also knew _that _better than nearly any man alive - an incredibly elite club, since few men stayed alive once they'd tangled with her.

Flexing his fingers against the unwanted stiffness the night's cold could bring, Hawkeye was sure he heard a soft laugh from the other end of the connection. Coulson wasn't half the tightass he pretended to be, and he was definitely twice the badass most people believed. And, most importantly, he was one of the few people Hawkeye trusted without reservation. That was also an elite club, one he would have said wasn't likely to grow in membership any time in the near future.

Another couple emerged from a limousine in front of the opera house. This woman had red hair as well, but it was not the fiery hue of the Widow's. It was the shade commonly known as strawberry blonde, worn in a loose updo with a midnight-blue dress. The man beside her-

"Shit," Hawkeye muttered, drawing back reflexively into a deeper shadow as he confirmed the man's identity for himself. He only knew him from media coverage, but his mugging face was damn near anywhere. "Who invited Tony Stark to this little shindig?"


	2. Chapter 2

The vaulted ceiling of the opera house's entrance foyer was supported by intricately carved columns and covered by an enormous circular mural depicting the nine muses of Greek myth. A sweeping marble staircase led up to the doors of the main auditorium, and in times past it provided a splendid venue for nineteenth century ladies to show off their new gowns to best advantage. Tonight, under the watchful painted eyes of Thalia and Melpomene, modern-day women preened and posed for the paparazzi, illuminated by flashbulbs and brilliant crystal chandeliers. Perhaps times had not changed so much after all. Black Widow spared them only the briefest glance, assessing for threats and moving on, turning to scan the rest of the crowd while at the same time keeping her face averted from the direct line of cameras.

After the sharp coolness of the outside, the inside air felt overheated and over-scented, a fact acknowledged by a quick wrinkle of Widow's nose. However, her well-schooled face remained impassive at Hawkeye's heads-up that Stark was in the house - the vernacular all too literal in this case. Cameras and heads swung toward the doors to capture the entrance of the man who was famous several times over: multiple degrees from MIT at a startlingly young age, head of Stark Industries, reputed lover to a bevy of Hollywood starlets (and a couple pretty boys, if the tabloids were to be believed), and - oh yes - the self-made superhero Iron Man. In what role was he here this evening, she wondered? Let this be some piece of corporate showmanship, a PR run rather than one of Stark's ego-centric solo escapades that would get in the way of their mission. Of course, the fact that Stark knew her face and her true affiliation from her brief time undercover at his company might complicate things. How had Fury not known he was on the attendees list? Or had he known and decided for his own reasons that Stark would be a good Plan B? Damn.

Those two seconds were all the mental break she allowed herself, and in truth they'd been two seconds too many. Fury's and Stark's hypothetical motives were irrelevant. She would focus on the job at hand and take the contingencies as they came, the same as always. A man, even an iron one, wasn't anything she couldn't handle. She turned her face up toward her date with a sweet smile that should have chilled him to the bone if he knew anything at all, then allowed him to lead her up the stairs to their seats, Tony Stark's voice carrying over the crowd behind them. The program would start with singing and a ballet performance; the _real _dancing would begin afterward.

* * *

"Hey, I heard this was where the real party was at," Tony joked broadly, gesturing with a glass of champagne that had found its way into his hand and gracing the nearest female reporter with the knowing grin that was the patented Playboy Tony trademark. Pepper's quiet presence on his arm didn't seem to discourage anyone, but somehow it made him feel good. His face assumed a more serious mien as he continued, "My father used to tell stories about the war, about how it hurt him to see so much history, which had been built over millenia, destroyed in a matter of moments in the name of greed and naked ambition. Of course, we all know that Stark weapons played a significant role in that destruction. Therefore, it is only fitting that Stark profits now be turned to restoration, even a half-century after the fact."

There was a round of polite applause, during which Tony saluted the crowd with his glass before tipping it up and draining it. "So, thinking to the future as well as the past, I have made a significant cash donation to the Hungarian Art Festivals Federation, based right here in Budapest. I also personally pledge here and now to match any donation made before the sun comes up. Get out your checkbooks, or your hidden Nazi treasure, whatever," he winked at a gray-haired man in the crowd, one sporting a red sash across his prodigious belly, "and see if your old money can drain my nouveau riche bank account dry. I dare you."

There, he thought to himself with no small amount of glee. Tonight, as far as anyone knew, he was Philanthropist Tony, salted with a dash of dance-until-dawn playboy and peppered with the expected amount of Stark Snark (as some clever reporter had dubbed his tendency toward glibness). A glimpse of something red on the stairs caught his eye, but it was gone before it could trigger a fully-formed image in his head. There was certainly no shortage of redheads in his personal background, some of whom he recalled better than others. The only one he cared about now was already by his side, but it might still bug him a little - or a lot - until he could place her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Music Note: **If you like a soundtrack with your reading, go to YouTube and search for "Jussi Bjorling - Nessun Dorma (1944)" to find the music playing behind this scene.

* * *

William Cross arrived at the opera house fashionably late. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, and his shirt was bright and spotless, black sapphire studs and cufflinks lending a subtle flash to the formal ensemble. Dark hair, touched by gray at the temples, gave the forty-something man a distinguished look. The only thing that might have made him stand out from the other guests was the black eyepatch that angled across his ruggedly handsome face. Of course, the cybernetic implant it concealed would have attracted far more attention, so it was a matter of degrees. The icy gray-blue of his undamaged right eye scanned the nearly empty foyer, then glanced up at the chandelier centered in the ceiling's mural. It was a shame, but sacrifices must be made.

Even before he reached the stairs, Cross could hear Puccini's _Nessun Dorma_ emanating from the auditorium. His cybernetically enhanced left ear detected frequencies outside the standard twenty to twenty-thousand hertz that most human ears could hear, as well as finer variations within that range, which mean he could enjoy a wider array of harmonies and tones when he listened to music. Cross appreciated the intricacies and effects of sound, both for pleasure and other purposes. The singer was decidedly talented, his rich tenor full of passion and strength as he sang the Italian lyrics. Even non-opera aficionados would easily recognize the ubiquitous piece. It had used often in cinema and sports, and it had also been the signature performance of the late Luciano Pavarotti. However, he suspected few would know the origin or meaning of the aria.

_"Vanish, O night! Set, stars! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!"_

Yes, the earnest Prince Calaf would win for himself the heart of the beautiful but cold Princess Turandot, the _Principessa di Morte_, but to what end? Cross had always imagined that when the novelty of her determined suitor's ardent kisses wore off, she would kill him anyway; no happily ever after.

The applause was thunderous, tickling his ear as it vibrated the very beams and walls. Smiling, he ascended the stairs and stepped into the dark auditorium, eager to see the next performer. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time, planning for it with meticulous attention to detail. The young Hungarian coloratura soprano who was taking the stage did not know he had entered her apartment last night, did not know about the miniscule transmitter of his own design that he had injected into her throat, where it nestled against her vocal chords. She might have noticed a small red mark, like an insect bite. She might even have wondered how such a thing could happen in winter and worried that it would mar her appearance, but no doubt her mind had been too focused on her performance this evening to dwell upon the question. _Der Hölle Rache_ was widely acknowledged as one of the most difficult pieces in the operatic genre, so this was a fantastic opportunity for her. The human mind was a powerful thing, but at the same time so very, very vulnerable and malleable to someone who knew how to offer the correct suggestion... like the little whisper he'd put in a certain prince's ear that he might have some nuclear material to sell.

* * *

"I'm coming inside," Hawkeye announced, working his way along an indirect path through the shadows to the roof door. He'd seen the late arrival, one of several, but there'd been no reason to mark any one of them as special. His change of position was simply part of the plan, since there had been nobody conveniently wearing an "ask me about my enriched uranium" sign, or even anyone who seemed overtly likely. It was never that easy, was it? They'd have to wait until contact was made with the mark.

Widow lifted one hand and, with her fingertips, brushed the elaborate jeweled choker circling her neck. It was a casual-looking gesture, like a woman who was simply reassuring herself of her appearance. She gave the medallion centered over her throat two soft taps with her index finger to acknowledge her partner's statement, then let her fingertips trail lightly down her chest to run along the low-cut neckline of her evening dress. That ought to suitably divert anyone whose attention had been drawn to her movement, she thought.

Tony Stark and Pepper Potts were sitting several rows in front of them. When the couple had come down the aisle she'd met Pepper's gaze for several seconds, her look clearly asking for discretion. The two women had worked together while she'd been working undercover at Stark Industries. At the time, Pepper hadn't knowing who she really was. The aftermath of the near-catastrophic battle with Ivan Vanko at the Stark Expo, along with some smoothing-over words from Phil Coulson, had convinced the level-headed Ms. Potts of the necessity for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s actions. Stark was lucky to have her as an ally. Tonight, the other woman had broken their look and turned away with no further acknowledgement; Widow took that action as agreement to her request. If her cover was blown, it wouldn't be by Stark's right-hand woman.


	4. Chapter 4

**Music Note: **To hear the music for this scene, go to YouTube and search for "Diana Damrau as Queen of the Night II" (the singing starts at about 2:10).

* * *

"Are you sure we're not listening to a couple cats humping in the alley?" Hawk whispered with a small smirk.

Widow kept her eyes focused on the stage, not letting them rise to the upper-tier box where Hawkeye had resettled himself. The main floor was ringed by several tiers of balcony seats and private boxes. One had been reserved by S.H.I.E.L.D., so the unappreciative wretch had one of the best spots in the house. Her 'date' had initially proposed something similar for them, but she'd persuaded the ignorant man that the acoustics (and the sightlines, which she was more interested in) were better on the main floor. Eager to please, or more likely eager to get into her panties, he'd complied. People might be surprised to learn that she actually enjoyed opera. The art went hand in hand with her ballet training and reminded her of things that were good about her homeland - there were a _few _things she remembered fondly, assuming they were true memories. Even if they weren't real, maybe the fact that they were happy was enough. Tonight she was having a tougher time.

Tony was bored, but he knew if he pulled out his handheld, Pepper would burn him dead with a single laser-stare, then berate his smoking corpse all the way back to the hotel. He'd made a promise, which he _had _to keep after breaking so many others. She deserved it. And yet, he felt a thread of resentment and irritation growing in him, especially as the woman on the stage hit the kind of note that only dogs should be able to hear. What _was _that? He fidgeted and Pepper shot him a side-eye glance. Burn! But that _noise_... it almost felt like a tickle at the back of his throat. Who was she to tell him what to do? Even if she was the CEO, _he _was the Stark in Stark Enterprises, right?

The crowd was getting edgy; Widow could feel it. There was a faint hum in her earpiece now, some kind of electronic interference. S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued coms were supposed to be insulated against that. She wanted to ask Coulson what the hell was wrong with their gear, and to tell Hawkeye to keep his smartassery to himself. Her job was difficult enough without his juvenile, testosterone-fueled commentary. Bottom line, she was tired of his mouth tonight. Why did she even need him anyway?

Pepper shot Tony another annoyed look. His foot was tapping the floor, but not in time to the music, and his fingers were drumming their shared armrest. "Stop it," she hissed, resentment from every past incident of inconsiderate selfishness snowballing into a sizable ball of rage. Was one evening of normal life _really _so much to ask?

The short hairs along the back of Hawkeye's neck were standing up, like someone was running nails down a chalkboard. He felt it in his teeth and in his gut. It made his skin itch, whatever _it _was. He was no stranger to discomfort, but this was something more. She was a perfect target, the woman on the stage. One arrow, quickly and quietly, and it would all stop. He fingered the taut string of his bow. No one would thank him; no one _ever _thanked him for what he did. They all thought he was their bitch, their trained monkey, didn't they?

The breast pocket of Tony's jacket vibrated insistently, the bzz-bzz-bzz drawing his attention, and his movement drawing Pepper's. The man inside the jacket was nearly vibrating with his need to see what was causing it. Finally, he just had to. The transparent screen of his handheld was filled with a complex, multicolored spectrogram, which shifted almost hypnotically as he watched. He pressed a flashing virtual button at the bottom of the screen and held the device to his ear.

"Sir," intoned JARVIS, with the subtle intensity that signaled something of priority happening in the AI's point of view. "I have detected unusual wavefront frequencies at your location, in the range from twenty to one hundred kilohertz as well as twenty to one-hundred megahertz. The patterns appear to be of a nonrandom nature. I am analyzing them now, but I anticipate they will take some time-"

The rest of JARVIS's message went unheard as Pepper literally slapped the handheld out of Tony's grasp. It bounced off his thigh and onto the floor. He gaped at her open-mouthed in his astonishment, finding himself at a complete loss for words for one of the few times in his life.

Black Widow missed this unusual interaction between Tony Stark and his girlfriend because, at the same time, her attention was drawn by a woman across the aisle to her left. The elegant, forty-something matron, dressed in meticulously-draped red velvet and diamonds, rose to her feet and walked several rows back. When she arrived, she reached into her beaded evening bag and withdrew a tiny pistol, which she used to shoot a middle-aged gentleman and the blonde seated beside him.

After that, as if the gunshot had come from a starter's pistol, all hell broke loose...


	5. Chapter 5

"Sir, we've got a match. It's an old CIA project, code name Siren."

Agent Coulson turned to look at the analyst, whose three screens were covered by a myriad of text and images. JARVIS wasn't the only one that had picked up on the anomalous signals at the opera house, though the S.H.I.E.L.D. group in New York City was not aware that Stark's AI was working in parallel to them.

"And...?" he said, trying not to be impatient.

"A siren is a creature from Greek legend that has the power to-"

"I _know _what a siren is, Jackson," Coulson interjected, a shade of impatience slipping through that time.

The young man looked duly chastened, even though the agent hadn't raised his voice above its usual tone. "So, anyway... Project Siren was an attempt to use ultrasonic signals to brainwash subjects by tapping into and exploiting their fears and aggressions. There was also speculation that it could be used as a large-scale weapon. One of the project leaders, Rozalyn Backus, stole the tech and killed her co-leader..."

Turning back to his monitors and bringing a new window to the front, he continued, "William Cross. He was related to the family that owns and operates Cross Technological Enterprises, a cousin to the current CEO Darren Cross. Backus was convicted of espionage and first-degree murder. She's in federal prison. The prototype was never recovered and Backus destroyed the records, though she denied everything at trial. The project was shut down in 1999."

Gee, _that _wasn't suspicious at all. Cross was one of Stark's major competitors in weapons, or it had been back when Stark made weapons. Even now they overlapped in several technological arenas. Did this have something to do with Tony Stark's presence at the gala? Coulson didn't have long to speculate about what a supposedly-defunct, decade-old spy project had to do with Hawkeye and Black Widow's current mission. The gunshot at the opera house came through loud and clear on his earpiece.

"Barton, was that you?"

* * *

"Fuck you, Phil." Clint barked back as his fingers quickly tapped a code on grip of his bow. He was stretched as tightly as the string. "I'm not some wet-behind-the-ears punk, old man."

After all these years...

He pulled out an arrow, sighting and letting it fly toward the stage. It landed unerringly at the feet of the singer, who seemed to be oblivious to the chaos erupting in the audience. A cloud of gas began to seep out of the arrowhead. She coughed lightly, raising one hand to politely cover her mouth, then tried to recover and continue. As soon as she inhaled she began to cough in earnest, backing shakily away from the spreading vapor. Clint's hand had already come up to wrap around the shaft of a second arrow. He _needed _to finish the job-

Wait, what was he doing? The singer wasn't his target, primary or discretionary. This mission was about information, not assassination... nonetheless, the urge was there, growing stronger each passing moment.

Forcing himself to turn away from the stage, Clint looked down and saw what seemed like the aftermath of a hotly contested soccer game - _football _over here, a corner of his brain reminded him - on the main floor of the opera house. Many audience members seemed stunned by what was going on around them, sitting bug-eyed and mute. Others brawled openly in the aisles or over the seats, very WWE-meets-high-society. There was a clear space around the two people who had been shot, the reflexive fear of common men toward dead flesh that had, until a few moments ago, been living and breathing people. The killer had melted into the crowd. Even her bright red dress wasn't enough to make her stand out any more. No one else had pulled a weapon... yet... but that didn't mean there wasn't plenty of blood in evidence.

So many targets...

* * *

Cross had expected Black Widow to be here tonight, but not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s famed archer. The Hawk and his anachronistic weapon had earned quite a reputation in criminal and espionage circles. Many men would boldly stare down the barrel of a gun, but were frightened by the notion of death sneaking in on stealthy wings to claim them. It was fantastic, he thought. He would get twice as much data for his efforts. Two well-disciplined minds who were trained to resist coercion; what _would _they do in response to his little toy?

The fact that the singer had ceased in response to Hawkeye's arrow didn't trouble Cross. He'd expected her to be silenced by some means or another. She was only the first treatment in his experiment, the primer. He looked up at the frescoed ceiling, the Olympians painted upon it looking back at him. It was very fitting. People read tales of the Greek gods to children without paying attention to their real messages. Zeus and the others petty, willful deities had wielded immense power, but they had all fallen prey to their vices and lusts. Were the gods of today, or their proxies here on earth, any different?

The foyer of the opera house was illuminated by many chandeliers of delicate crystal, but the main hall boasted a single massive, gilded fixture centered in the fresco. It weighed more than three tons, and hidden beneath the fresco lay a steel infrastructure that supported the weight. That backbone, coupled with the hall's acoustics, made this chamber nearly perfect for what he had in mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony was on his hands and knees on the floor even before the gunshots went off, looking for his handheld. Thank God it wasn't a movie theater, he thought as he put his palm flat down on the floor so he could stretch himself out to reach for the small device - which was suddenly kicked out of his reach by a woman's black patent leather pump as the pop-pop of the gun touched off screams and jostling throughout the audience. He scrambled after it on all fours, tempted to bite the ankle in his way as he narrowly managed to pull his hand out from under a wickedly pointed high heel.

"Oh, these are _such _good seats, Tony," he said in a sing-song falsetto, mocking Pepper's speech earlier in the car as he worked his way another few inches forward. Where _was _it? In his own voice, he called out, "JARVIS!"

"Here, sir."

The AI's voice was cool and collected, belying the increasing seriousness of the scenario in the opera house. Tony spotted the soft blue glow of his handheld under a seat and flattened out on his belly to stretch his hand beneath to retrieve it. He had to scrabble a bit with his fingers, but he finally got a grip on it. This time he _did _get stepped on, and he let out an indignant yelp as a heavy foot tread on his back.

"Hey, this tux is Armani!" he barked. Struggling up, he grasped the back of the seat in front of him with one hand for leverage, his handheld clutched to his chest with the other.

"Sir, based on preliminary analyses, I can generate a series of counter-frequencies that should dampen the anomalous signal for a short time, but they will be effective only within two feet of your receiver. You and Miss Potts must stay very close to one another for it to be effective for both of you."

Close to Pepper? Definitely not a problem, Tony thought. At least, that's what he was thinking until he got a good look at her face, which was a rather intimidating mixture of fear and anger. Everything was going to hell around them. Was that an _arrow _in the damned stage? What the hell? He scanned the dark boxes along the side walls as he pushed his way toward Pepper, who'd just backhanded the man who'd been sitting next to them with her little beaded evening bag. From his handheld he heard a faint whine, which somehow made his teeth feel itchy.

"JARVIS, find me the quickest path out of this madhouse and tell Happy to get the car over to the exit. Oh... and make sure he's got the case ready for me."

"There is a map on your screen, sir, and I can give you additional audio directions should you become lost."

Tony jerked his head back, letting Pepper's purse whiz past his nose rather than smack him in the cheek. He caught her wrist, pulling her close to him. She tried to yank back, but he held on firmly. "Pepper, baby, I love you, and when we get back to the hotel, I'll be glad to talk about whatever's got you so pissed off. Right now we need to get out of here before something freaky fries our brains..." he glanced around again, "or we get shot by the love child of Phantom of the Opera and Robin Hood. Either way - not good."

As if on cue, a body came hurtling from one of the upper-tier boxes, the man's jacket fluttering as he plummeted toward the main floor. He landed with a loud, sickening crack across a row of seats. Pepper gave a squeak and wrapped her arms around Tony's neck, now mostly scared since she was inside JARVIS's area of influence. Tony thrust the handheld into Pepper's grip and swept her up in his arms, elbowing and shoving his way down the aisle toward the exit at the front of the auditorium.

* * *

"Sir, assuming this is in fact the Siren technology, I believe I can counter the signal effects, but there is a potential problem."

Coulson turned from his own monitor. The young analyst looked at him silently, as if waiting for permission to continue speaking. He raised both eyebrows and gave him a "come on" hand gesture.

"According to the CIA's reconstructed notes, the intended target of the technology's effects is the amygdala, which is in the antero-inferior region of the temporal lobes of the brain."

The analyst gestured vaguely around his own head. "It affects long-term memory modulation, which means the way we store things in our memories, and major emotions like love, fear, rage, sex drive, and possibly even sexual orientation. On some levels it's exceedingly primitive, generating an animal-level fight or flight response. Experimentally, direct electrical stimulus of the amygdala has elicited violent aggressiveness, sometimes to the point of self-destruction, which was the basis of-".

The senior agent held up a hand, palm out. Dryly, he said, "Let's cut to the chase before they're dead, please."

"I can send a burst through their comms that should counteract any effects they're currently experiencing. It will fry the remote equipment in the process, so we won't know whether it worked until they activate alternate contact. Besides the equipment, there's a chance one or both will end up deaf or brain damaged. _Sir_."

Coulson could see the hard facts of the scenario for himself. The mission was scrubbed. Both Hawkeye and Black Widow were potentially compromised. Maybe that had been true from the moment they'd arrived. He certainly didn't want to lose either agent or see them come to any harm, not on his watch. He considered them friends as well as colleagues. However, the reality was this: when it came to fight or flight survival, neither was the type to run away. That was a consequence he didn't even want to imagine for the civilians on the scene - a consequence S.H.I.E.L.D. could not afford.

"Do it," he said flatly.


	7. Chapter 7

Black Widow whirled around with lightning speed, her cocked elbow striking a man solidly in the temple when he tried to grab one of her arms. He was a stranger to her. Only a last-minute instinct changed the strike from a killing blow to a stunning one. Even so, he dropped like a poleaxed cow. Assured that he was disabled for the moment, her eyes automatically sought out her next target in the dark sea of shrieking, fighting bodies. They were all rank amateurs, wasting their energy in useless flailing, dealing out bloody but superficial damage. In the row right in front of her, one woman clawed another across the face, leaving behind bloody weals in her victim's pale skin. Where the hell was Hawkeye? He was supposed to be her backup-

The Black Widow didn't need backup. She was the perfect instrument, the ultimate weapon, a miracle of Soviet science. Her mission was her purpose; she had no other. For a moment her eyes closed as she recalled the masculine Russian voice repeating those nine words over and over, waking and sleeping, making her say it, memorize it, _believe _it. He spoke to her again now, after his long absence. _Your mission is your purpose; you have no other_. But that was a long time ago, wasn't it? Before-

Another hand touched her. She whirled and snatched it away from her bare arm almost before her skin had a chance to register the heat of it. With a quick levering motion she bent it back, heard the sharp snap of bone, ignored the scream. There was a rhythmic pounding inside her head and another man's voice, guttural and Slavic. He told her what would happen if she were ever taken prisoner, what terrible things the other side would do to her, the tortures she would endure. She couldn't be taken-

NO! Her brain struggled, argued against the long-ago voices. _S.H.I.E.L.D._ She worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. now. Hawkeye was her partner, her _friend_-

Friendships were discouraged. They made you weak. She was the _best_. Uncle Ivan always told her so...

High above the floor, Hawkeye looked down the length of his arrow into the melee, blocking out everything but his target. He had the infamous Black Widow squarely in his sights. Even the dim lighting could not conceal the precise and fluid grace of her movements. The dossier S.H.I.E.L.D. had compiled noted that she had repeatedly demonstrated agility and reflexes in the superhuman range. That was one of the very few concrete details it contained. The rest of the sparse file had been a long list of the murders and acts of espionage credited to her, rather than information about the woman herself. He had studied it nonetheless, trying to imagine how he would have handled those same assignments. The nature of her crimes, if you wanted to label them as such, gave him insight into her psyche and methods - all the better to hunt her down and kill her. She was a threat to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, queen and country, all that jazz. He'd been ordered by the council to put her down. Though no big fuss or even a mention had been made when Fury had delivered the order, he knew it was a hell of an honor to be chosen. She was-

His _friend_.

He blinked, muscles in his back losing a hint of their tension against his drawn bow. Before he could question his own thoughts further, never mind the total clusterfuck this mission had become, an ice pick rammed in through his left ear and straight into his skull. It wasn't really an ice pick, of course, but it felt every bit like his brain had been penetrated by eight inches of cold, hard steel. Had he been able to think, he might have wondered if this was what it felt like when one of his arrows punched through living flesh. He couldn't think, couldn't breath, his agonized scream trapped in his throat as his body curled reflexively around itself.

An arrow thudded firmly into the back of the seat immediately to the left of Widow, just as she was ripping her earpiece out. _Clint_. The thought came to her in a quick flash. She had felt a tickle and then a sharp pain in her teeth before the sound had become audible. It snaked and rattled through her brain until her quick reflexes could remove the source. It hurt, but like so many things in life that were painful, it left clarity in its wake. The earpiece fell to the floor as she kicked off her heels and struck out toward the aisle, knowing without even looking that her partner was in trouble. Her gut was never wrong on that account. The mission now was to get out with their asses intact and regroup.

Hawkeye couldn't tell whether the noise had stopped; the ringing in his head was too loud and everything sounded wrong, like his head was under water. His hand came away from his ear wet and bloody. He wiped it on his pants leg and pushed up to his hands and knees, feeling for his bow. It had landed on the floor off to his right and he felt an instant reassurance once his fingers closed around it. When he tried to lever himself up to his knees he lurched to one side, unbalanced. His hand grasped at the arm of a chair, and with gritted teeth he righted himself. His planned exit strategy wasn't going to work if he fell on his face... or down the stairs, or off the damned roof.

Widow's path was blocked by a burly man whose broad shoulders strained the fabric of his tuxedo. He was busy hiking up the skirt of a shrieking, resisting woman. Her upswept hair had halfway fallen down around her shoulders and her mascara was streaked by tears, shadowing her wide, frightened eyes. Pulling up her own skirt, Widow stepped on the seat of the nearest chair and then onto the narrow back, spinning into a roundhouse kick that caught the man squarely in the jaw. His head snapped to the side, making the woman he was assaulting shriek again in fearful surprise. Her dress had been ripped down the front as well, and with efficient coolness, Widow delivered a second kick that put the man on the floor. Then she was gone in a leap to the back of the next row, and then the next, like some demented game of hopscotch.

Descending into the confused free-for-all probably wasn't the best decision, Hawkeye knew. Objectively, it was pretty a damned bad one, and yet it seemed like the only workable strategy. Along with the dizziness his vision was doubled, like a ghost on an old-fashioned TV, and the colors were faded. He could probably hit the side of a barn, but not much else with accuracy. Giving his bow-grip a few clicks, he felt his quiver vibrate and reached up and behind for the arrow he'd chosen. Blinking, he took in a deep breath and held it, bracing himself against a seat, exhaling softly as he let the grapple fly toward the ceiling. A deceptively thin line trailed behind, and a hard tug confirmed its solid placement. Hooking on, he slung his bow crosswise to free his hands and climbed up to sling one leg over the edge of the balcony. Even without his earpiece (and Coulson would be getting an earful of his own later), he could hear Widow's voice in his ear, calling him an idiot.


	8. Chapter 8

Hawkeye never really enjoyed flying through the air. The stunt always gave him a vulnerable and desperate feeling; it went without saying that neither was something he was comfortable with. Climbing and tumbling, you had some control. Swinging was all gravity and momentum, with a helping of dumb luck. Back when he'd been with the circus, the trapeze artists had tried to teach him some moves, but he didn't have a sure-handed catcher waiting for him now. When he committed to the leap and pushed off the balcony, he began to swing in a broad arc toward the back of the theater, moving both down and sideways relative to the point where his arrow was attached. The ceiling was four stories high, which made him the pendulum at the end of a long string; the floor sloped up from front to back, as most theaters did. There was only a narrow walkway between the seats and a small space at the back, which made it difficult to judge when he should cut himself loose, especially since both were full of people.

Oooh... he was going to puke. Whatever was going on in his ear was also giving him wicked vertigo, the lights and colors whirling around - or was that him doing all the crazy spinning? It felt like the world gave a lurch, and the decision about when to drop wasn't his to make. He hadn't been able to see the cracks in the large ceiling mural when he'd fired off his arrow, the structure having been compromised and shaken loose by the device concealed above. A large chunk had fallen out under his added weight, taking his arrow with it. He flailed for a moment in surprise when he felt the stomach-dropping sensation of free-fall, then tucked his head into his arms a fraction of a second before crashing down into a cluster of people. They yelped in pain and indignation as his mass hit them. He half-bounced and half-rolled off them, grazed the edge of one seat with his thigh and another with his head, and landed hard in the aisle. There he rolled into the legs of several more people. His line was trailing after him, flapping loose. A couple lengths of it wrapped around his body, awkwardly pinning his arms and bow to him. Either sweat or blood was dripping warmly down his face, stinging his eye. Damn.

A male foot in a patent-leather dress shoe stomped down hard near his face. He jerked away just in time to prevent the heel from taking off his nose, his quiver digging painfully into his back. His head was pointed toward the stage, making it lie lower than his feet on the tilted floor, another problem when it came to no-armed leverage. There was a knife tucked in his left boot that could easily slice through the line, but he had no way to reach it trussed up like he was. When a pair of hands reached out to grab at him, he wrenched himself onto his back and kicked out with one foot, propelling the man away to bowl over a pair of brawling women. One had just grabbed a handful of the other's elaborately curled hair; the second had hooked her fingers into the first's beaded necklace. When the man crashed into them, her fingers grasped and pulled reflexively, trying to break her fall. The necklace's cord broke and scattered beads everywhere. Hawkeye closed his eyes as they rained down around them to bounce against the seats and floor, then rolled and tripped yet more people. He pulled his knees up and tried to roll over, but his bow was slanted across his body. Opening his eyes and grunting with effort and frustration, he twisted the other way, using a leg to hook and sweep two others' feet out from beneath them, jerking to avoid the falling bodies.

Black Widow had seen Hawkeye fall - how could she not, really? She'd been headed to the rear of the theater, but now she had to reverse course and make her way back to her partner. When she turned, a man's arm caught her around the middle and a hand slapped solidly onto her bottom, hoisting her up and over his beefy shoulder in a sort of caveman-carry. At least, that's what he was trying to do. She went with the momentum rather than fighting it, and when her stomach landed on his shoulder she grabbed two fists full of his jacket. Using the grip for leverage, she curled her body and brought her knee up sharply into his nose, feeling it break under the assault. As he reflexively bent to put his hands to his face, she somersaulted over his broad back, pushing off and coming to a three-point landing on the floor, one hand raised for balance, her dress flared out around her.

"Hawkeye," she called, wanting to warn him that she was coming; maybe wanting to reassure him at the same time. She saw him move and knew he was at least conscious. More than that, he was fighting back. Despite the situation going utterly to hell around them, a smile crossed her lips. He was a hell of a partner - a hell of a _man_.

Unfortunately, Hawkeye could hear nothing but the ringing in his head. Everything else was a distant and distorted mess, like the trombone wah-wah of the adults in the old Charlie Brown cartoons. Bracing against the side of a chair, he shoved himself into a backward roll, bruising his shoulder some in the process but landing on his knees without breaking his neck. Another shift got one foot down, and then he was standing. For now he was going to call that progress.

There was another hand on him, but this time his defensive blow was blocked, and his gaze met a familiar pair of blue eyes. He didn't have to tell her where his knife was; Widow reached down and pulled it out, cutting him free from his drop-line, turning only once to brandish it at someone. The guy backed off immediately, faux courage sapped by the sight of the weapon.

* * *

From his vantage point at the back of the floor, shielded from the violence by a special effect of his device that rendered him effectively "invisible" (in a psychic sense) to those around him, Cross had also witnessed Hawkeye's Tarzan impression. Something was wrong. He could just _feel _it. Somehow, the archer and Black Widow were deaf to the song of his Siren. At the moment he didn't realize how literal that was, but he could see that their movements were too purposeful. It was time for him to go.

Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a small remote device and thumbed in a code. There was an audible rumbling and rattling, the three-ton chandelier shaking and swaying violently, the mural around it visibly cracking now. Zeus' face fell away, then a cloud, white dust raining down on the audience like snow. Faces turned upward, uncomprehending. Cross smiled in his anticipation, putting the remote away. As he turned on his heel, there was a popping sound followed by a rending screech from above. The entire mural fell away, chunks breaking apart as they hit seats, chairs, and floor. Bare beams and rafters were exposed; then the giant, gilded bronze chandelier began to plunge toward the floor.


End file.
